


Can I Have This Dance

by lynwrites



Category: Tristol, Union by demigod_girl17 on Wattpad
Genre: F/M, Fluff, but i am tristol trash, maybe too many words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2015-09-04
Packaged: 2018-04-18 22:57:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4723421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynwrites/pseuds/lynwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Excerpt:</i> She’s going on and on about how blueberry waffles with whipped cream and just a touch of maple syrup are the best at breakfast. He interjects with “you drown your waffles in maple syrup, Bristol” and she just barrels on like he’s never spoken about how they’re even better with a cup of hot chocolate or    <em>oh yes coffee with loads of milk </em>and he can’t help laughing. Her brown curls cascade off her shoulders in waves and he absentmindedly twirls a strand around his finger.</p><p>“I took about an hour to style my hair, you idiot – ruin it and you are so dead.” But she’s grinning and he hasn’t the heart to tell her she has a bit of chocolate on her teeth because heck, she’s gorgeous anyway.</p><p>  <b>A/N: Songfic (you can probably already guess the song). Just some Tristol fluff. Not AU or anything, but more peaceful than usual. Includes awkward dancing because the two dorks have no idea how to dance (who has time to learn to slow dance when you're busy saving the world amirite) and some mentions of Bristol being a lil bit tipsy (but nothing too serious). Hope you enjoy!<b></b></b></p>
            </blockquote>





	Can I Have This Dance

**A/N: This is a Tristol songfic, and the song is Can I Have This Dance. I am Tristol trash, and I am also HSM trash. This is set in no particular time period, and was inspired by that CJ/Bristol/Tristan dance scene (except I had to pick just one ship and I picked Tristol oops). Enjoy.**

_Take my hand, take a breath, pull me close, and take one step_

Tristan scans the room. There’s no sign of her at all among the flashes of light and the crowd, but that might be because he’s not experienced with parties. 

He’s so lost in thought that he doesn’t notice the person behind him until they tap him on the shoulder. 

“Avi, please don’t do that.” 

“I noticed you seemed listless, so I thought you needed a slight wake-up call.” Her emerald necklace catches the glare of the spotlights, and Tristan blinks, momentarily blinded. 

“This is a nice party,” Avi continues, turning to observe the partygoers. “Although,” she frowns, as a slightly drunk couple stagger past them, “some people are having a little too much fun.” 

Tristan rubs his eyes. “Mmhmm.” 

“I suppose that is what you are supposed to do at parties, is it not?” 

“I guess.” 

Avi turns back to him, brown hair bouncing over her right shoulder and curling below her chin. “But I do not think you have heard a single word I have been saying, have you?” 

He starts, then looks apologetically at her. “Sorry, Avi. I’m just-“ 

“Just thinking?” 

He nods. 

Avi smiles. “There is no need to say any more, Tristan.” She lifts an arm to point at a corner of the room. “She is there.” 

He tries to protest. “I-“ 

She makes little shooing motions. “Go. Have fun. I think I will be occupying myself with calculating the amount of alcohol in each drink.” She lifts an eyebrow. “If you stayed, you would be ruining my time, would you not?” 

He grins at her. “Thanks, Avi.” 

She jabs a finger in the direction of the food tables. “You have five seconds before I push you there myself.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

He makes his way along the sides of the room, avoiding the swaying people on the dance floor and the loud conversations. He’s not really one for social situations, he reflects. 

He hears her loud laugh first. She’s by the buffet table, chatting with a group of people, and he grins despite himself. Of course she’s where the food is. 

He knows it’s cheesy, but he can’t help but think that she looks stunning. She holds herself with easy grace and her eyes sparkle with enthusiasm and the determination he knows so well and God, he thinks, she’s beautiful. 

“No turning back now,” he mutters to himself, and takes the step that brings her within earshot. 

“Bristol?” 

She turns around, a small, empty champagne flute in hand, her face lighting up when she sees him. 

He holds out his hand, a shy smile on his face. “May I have this dance?” 

She tilts her head, considering him for a moment, then turns and sets down her champagne. Her hand lands gently in his, and she gives him an impish grin. “Of course.” 

_Keep your eyes locked on mine, and let the music be your guide_

“I warn you,” she says as they walk onto the dance floor, and he can hear the laugh in her voice that’s a telltale sign of her being slightly drunk. He can’t help the small lift of the corners of his mouth. She’s always been a happy goof whenever she’s intoxicated. 

“Yes?” 

“I don’t really know how to dance,” she shrugs. “If I step on your feet, here’s an apology in advance, and if I trip, you’re catching me.” 

He pretends to think about it. “What if I refuse to catch you?” 

“Then you’ll never be able to go near any water for a good long time.” 

“That is so unfair.” 

“I’ll be bored in the infirmary, won’t I?” She grins. “Plus, I’m not the type of person who goes with the whole ‘forgive and forget’ vibe. Just doesn’t suit me.” 

“That’s going to get you in trouble one day, Vandeviere.” 

“Well, Dahl, it already has. So I’m not too worried.” 

He shakes his head in amusement. “Your stubbornness, too.” 

“You’re twice as stubborn as me, and you know it.” 

“Fine.” 

She smirks, her lips stretching into a wide smile, and he finds himself staring a moment too long before looking away. 

“Lucky for you,” he says to break the silence, “I know how to dance.” 

“Really?” 

“Kind of.” 

“Well,” she turns to face him properly, “please instruct, or I will start doing box steps with jazz hands because that’s the only thing I know.” 

He snorts, and she smiles mischievously. “Bet you I could pull that off in this dress.” 

“You place one hand here,” he moves her hand to his shoulder, and then I hold your other hand,” and he clasps her hand gently, “and then I have to do the same, but I hold your back, not your shoulder,” and he lightly places his hand on her back. 

“That okay?” 

She frowns. “I am clearly aware,” she announces, “that I am quite drunk at the moment. I am, when not intoxicated, not the best at coordination. I am, when intoxicated, even worse.” She raises an eyebrow at him. “I am definitely going to fall. You’ll probably fall with me, too.” 

“You won’t fall.” 

“Have you seen my heels?” She sticks out a leg to emphasise her point. 

“You could take off your heels,” he offers. 

“Ah, but then I wouldn’t be almost as tall as you.” 

He chuckled. “Short.” 

“Shut up.” 

“You’re short.” 

“Quit it, Tristan, or so help me.” 

“Shoooooort.” 

Her eyes drift over to the three punch bowls, all glass and high-class. “You know,” she says casually, “I could always give you a free rainstorm of fruit punch.” 

“Would fruit punch work with your powers, though?” 

“I’d be more than happy to test that out.” 

“Wouldn’t it be cool if I could freeze the fruit punch over me so I get a Tristan ice fruit punch statue?” 

“Are we dancing, or are we going to keep discussing the fruit punch?” 

“Because that would be _very_ cool.” 

She sighs. “Boys.” 

He winks. “Short.” 

He has to duck as she aims a half-hearted blow at his head. 

_Won’t you promise me that you’ll never forget; we’ll keep dancing wherever we go next_

They’re not exactly dancing – more of swaying in time with the music. They would dance, but right now, Bristol’s enthusiastically (if not a little drunkenly) talking about waffles and he can’t really bring himself to break the conversation. 

She’s going on and on about how blueberry waffles with whipped cream and just a touch of maple syrup are the best at breakfast. He interjects with “you drown your waffles in maple syrup, Bristol” and she just barrels on like he’s never spoken about how they’re even better with a cup of hot chocolate or _oh yes coffee with loads of milk_ and he can’t help laughing. Her brown curls cascade off her shoulders in waves and he absentmindedly twirls a strand around his finger. 

“I took about an hour to style my hair, you idiot – ruin it and you are so dead.” But she’s grinning and he hasn’t the heart to tell her she has a bit of chocolate on her teeth because heck, she’s gorgeous anyway. 

“I still think chocolate pancakes are better.” 

“You are an insult to the world of taste.” 

“Hey, don’t bash the chocolate pancakes.” 

“I’m allowed to, because they’re awful.” 

“You’re insufferable, you know that?” 

She moves his hand from her hair to her back. “And you’re incorrigible. Are we dancing, or what?” 

He feels a little shudder out from where her fingers rest on his shoulder. “We are.” 

_Take my hand, I’ll take the lead, and every turn will be safe with me_

“So, you step forwards,” he directs, nodding his head at her right foot, “and then I’ll step back at the same time.” 

She frowns. 

“Just do it.” 

She hesitantly steps forward, and he steps back at the same time. She wobbles a bit on her heels. 

“This was a bad idea.” 

“Nah, it wasn’t. You’re doing fine. Now,” he tells her, “move your other foot forward.” 

They step together, Tristan carefully holding Bristol steady. 

“Then, you step backwards with your right leg,” she does it, and he moves forward, “and then your left.” 

She’s still gripping his hand rather tightly, and he can feel her apprehensiveness in her eyes and the way her hand keeps shifting on his shoulder every time they move. “And?” 

“That’s it.” 

“Are you serious?” 

“Yeah.” He wants to laugh at the flabbergasted look on her face, a childlike wonder at the simplicity of it, and thinks it’s probably the alcohol. 

“I was expecting some fancy twirl or acrobatic feat that I would most definitely not be able to perform.” 

“Well, there probably are, but I am merely a beginner, so even if you wanted to do that, I’d be incapable of preventing you falling over. In fact, I’d probably drop you like a sack of potatoes.” 

She squints at him teasingly. “I’m starting to doubt my trust in you, Tristan Dahl.” 

“I beg to differ, Bristol Vandeviere.” 

She simply looks at him for a moment, and then she steps forward, and he steps back. They’re dancing – maybe not properly, maybe a little cautious, but, he thinks – it’s much better than nothing at all. 

_Don’t be afraid to fall, you know I’ll catch you through it all_

He should probably have seen it coming. 

Or maybe not. He’s not exactly a professional at this dancing thing. 

They’ve just settled into a nice rhythm, with the occasional “hold on” or “wait that was the wrong foot”, but it’s about eighty percent passable as a dance and it’s not like they can do much better. He’s trying to keep up a running commentary of stepping and natural conversation and he doesn’t notice that the sash she has draped gracefully across her shoulders is slowly sliding off. He doesn’t notice that her next step causes the sash to hit the floor. He doesn’t see her heel step right into the shimmering cloth until she lurches backwards and collapses to the ground with a surprised look on her face. He teeters on the edge of balance, and for a moment he thinks he’s okay. Then momentum and gravity take over and he goes down, too, his knee smashing into the floor beside her arm and an involuntary grunt of pain coming from him. 

The people beside them turn and he can hear their amused whispers and titters. He feels like yelling back that he doesn’t dance much anyway and he’s not a rich prat who attends formal parties like these all of the time and that _don’t you know staring is rude_ but he doesn’t shout any of it because Bristol is pretty much lying down beside him and _please don’t be hurt._

“Bristol,” he murmurs, holding himself back from shooting a death glare at the snickers that come from behind him. “Hey, Vandeviere, you okay?” 

She pushes herself up into a sitting position, and she’s laughing, all bright smile and glittering eyes, her curls rumpled and her necklace crooked, and she turns to him with a smirk and a triumphant “I told you so.” 

“That’s not much to be proud of, you know.” 

“Oh, I know.” 

He stands up and straightens his suit, then bows low and offers his hand to her. “I believe we were in the middle of something.” 

Her eyes glimmer with humour, and she accepts his arm, pulling herself up in a surprisingly quick movement. “And so we shall continue.” 

“No more falling, please.” 

“No promises.” 

He shrugs. “Fair enough.” 

She snorts and picks her sash off the ground in a single sweep, deftly tying it around her waist. “I still have yet to dance smoothly for two minutes straight.” 

He looks at her for a moment, then says, “You know you’re brilliant, right?” 

She doesn’t say anything, and maybe it’s just a trick of the light, but her cheeks flame red and she can’t control the smile that’s growing on her face. 

_And you can’t keep us apart, ‘cause my heart is wherever you are_

He thinks back to the time she was captured by Rune, remembers how awful that was for all of them. He remembers the fear he’d felt when CJ came back without her, and the blast of worry and anger that he’d needed to expel. He remembers her collapsing on the floor, shaking and shivering and tear tracks staining her face and her eyes screaming a silent cry for help. How he’d felt like he’d do anything he could to save her, save him from ever having to see that tortured expression of hers again. 

Some emotion must flicker across his face, because she quietly says, “Hey. I’m okay now. We’re all okay.” 

“How did you know what I was thinking?” 

“Your eyebrows are creasing together, like they do when you’re worried. And your left eye is twitching.” 

She drops her gaze suddenly, like she’s embarrassed to know that. 

He thinks it’s thoughtful of her, and a little sweet, too, and he tells her so, although not that last part. She puts it down to being too observant and overly wary of everything. He tells her that she’s becoming like Avi with capabilities of the human limit, and she sticks her tongue out at him. 

“Knowing you, you’d use your scans to make us nauseous more than to actually perform a search for things.” 

She drums her fingers thoughtfully on his shoulder. “Probably.” 

He can’t tell why, but it feels like his shoulder is a plug socket and he’s getting a small electric shock every time her finger lightly hits his shoulder bone. 

_It’s like catching lightning, the chances of finding someone like you; it’s one in a million, the chances of feeling the way we do_

The night goes on, and they abandon their dancing efforts after about half an hour. Tristan claims it’s because they’re good enough already and Bristol insists that her heels hurt and they’re both tired, anyway, but with the constant mutters of apologies after feet being stepped on, it’s somehow not quite believable. And everyone knows that Bristol can do almost everything in heels, and it takes more than a dance to make superheroes with superhero training to be tired. 

They drift among the crowd, chatting animatedly, and of course they end up at the buffet table again. He’s not quite sure if it’s because she’s purposely steered him there or they subconsciously want food, but either way, he’s perfectly fine with it. Bristol picks up another drink, suspiciously examining the golden-yellow contents topped with a few pieces of pineapple. He guesses that it passes her inspection, because she lifts it to her lips and takes a sip, her fingers delicate against the fragile glass. 

She notices him watching and widens her eyes over the rim of her cup, taking another sip. He turns and appraises the table of drinks, then picks up a champagne flute. She smiles. “Classy,” she comments. 

“Or boring.” 

“That as well,” she concedes, “but still much more classy than alcoholic fruit juice and trying to get pineapple out of the cup and into your mouth.” 

“You said it, not me.” 

She sucks up a piece of pineapple and gives him a cheeky grin, turning to a group of people and slipping effortlessly into their conversation. He swallows. She’s stunning, with her confidence and her endearing clumsiness, and of course, the dress doesn’t do too bad a job either. Maybe he’ll tell her tonight. Maybe this will be the night. 

For a moment, he panics. What if she doesn’t like him? What if she says no? What will they do if she says no? Will the Union be weaker because two of its members aren’t fully – well – united? What if, what if, what if, what if, and _oh god oh god oh god._

A gleam of emeralds emerges in his line of vision, and Avi locks eyes with him from across the room. She nods. _Do it_. And a softer smile of reassurance. _You’ll be absolutely fine._

He takes a deep breath. 

_And with every step together, we just keep on getting better; so can I have this dance_

“Bristol,” he says her name like it’s a precious, precious gem, and she turns to him mid-laugh, her face flushed with happiness, her brown eyes sparkling. 

He lifts his eyes to hers, blue to brown. “May I kiss you?” __

_Can I have this dance?_

She blinks, then smiles shyly, and his heart feels like it’s melted and his brain has gone to mush and his bones have short-circuited with the sparks of lightning her touches always bring. “Yes,” she says, “you may.” 


End file.
